


thirteen

by thewinterking



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Brainwashing, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Psychological Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-07-07 23:51:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15918762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewinterking/pseuds/thewinterking
Summary: Her time here oscillates between two spaces: the white room, and the black.





	thirteen

**Author's Note:**

> Takes largely from the baseline scene in Blade Runner 2049. Wrote this back in April as part of a prequel for a larger work, but I'm just getting back in the habit of posting regularly again.

Her time here oscillates between two spaces: the white room, and the black. Befitting its name, the black room has no windows or light sources. There are four narrow walls of concrete and an unfinished floor that grates against her skin. She’s given a crude hole in the ground for a toilet and no bed on which to sleep.

Pride tells her this room was constructed just for her: an insult to her upbringing in the gilded halls of Château Guillard. When Gérard comes, and he will come, he will find her filthy and starved. Her fine face will be reduced to bone-sharp angles and sunken shadows. They can’t kill him, so they will reduce his wife to this broken, ugly thing.

But, the black room is preferable to the white. Here in the dark, she can stare with lidless eyes into an abyss that neither asks nor takes anything from her. Nothing matters here, her old life least of all. In three days time, she forgets that _Orpheus and Eurydice_ is opening and Yvette Rouzet will take her place as prima-ballerina.

In five days, she forgets the difficult combination before the final act. Was it one _grand jette_ or two? How many _fouettés_ did she need?

Thirteen. It has to be thirteen. An odd number would take her out of rhythm with the music, but she can’t think anything else.

_No_ , her mind whispers, _there are no fouettés in that number, you silly girl._

Thirteen. She was thirteen when she broke her ankle.

Thirteen. There were thirteen windows in the Château’s ballroom.

Thirteen. She lands thirteen _fouettés_ auditioning for a prestigious spot in The Ballet School.

Thirteen. She does thirteen _fouettés_ as Eurydice while the Underworld swirls around her.

None of it seems right, but the number won’t dislodge itself from her mind.

They remind her of its significance in the white room.

Amélie flinches against the stark light beaming on her face. This is the only movement she’s allowed. Her forehead is strapped back against the upright chair; each limb is bound with Kevlar belts that bite her raw.

Four white tiled walls surround her, each so close that should she stretch out her arms, she could touch them. The only irregularity is the slim device mounted in front of her: a camera and speaker, no bigger than her hand.

“Repeat it,” its voice commands.

Amélie can’t find her own. Her throat is raw and splintered with what feels like glass. They haven’t given her water in hours.

_Hours_ , her mind asks, low and amused, _or days?_

She doesn’t know. All she readily knows is how much she hates him. It. The thing behind the camera. The one constructing this hell for her.

“Say it,” the voice orders again.

Her lips tremble around the word. “Thirteen.”

“Do you miss your freedom? Thirteen.”

“Thirteen.”

“Why hasn’t Gérard come for you? Thirteen.”

“He -- th-thirteen.”

Silence falls between them and Amélie knows by now that silence means punishment will soon follow. They’ve already withheld food from her, and now water. Will they beat her next? Shatter her limbs, pull back her nails?

Her skin crawls at the thought.

The voice draws a labored breath behind the camera, slow and _disappointed_.

“I expected better from you.”

“I can do better,” she rasps against the strain of her throat.

Another lapse; the voice does not immediately answer and Amélie wonders if her gambit will cost her.

Then, the speaker crackles and says a tentative, “Let’s move on. A silly girl screams at the spider.”

“At the spider.”

“Have you ever held a spider? Spider.”

“Spider.”

“Have you pulled off its legs? Spider.”

“Spider.”

“Why does a black widow eat its mate? Spider.”

“Spider.”

“Have you ever felt the urge to kill? Spider.”

“Spider.”

“Thirteen. Spider. Separation. Palace. Two.”

That’s new: she knows the first two words and knows the game the voice plays with her, but they’ve never said the rest. Does she repeat it all, or only the last? Will she dance again if they break her legs?

“Thirteen,” she breathes out, “Spider. Separation. Palace. Two.”

Another pause. This one stretches so long that her skin prickles with sweat. She wants to blanch against her binds and close her eyes to the light on her face. She wants to scream.

Why hasn’t Gérard come for her?

_Thirteen_.

Did Overwatch forget her?

_Thirteen_.

Does he love her?

_Thirteen_.

The speaker tuts, but this time it is not a sound of reproach. Something shuffles around them like paper or fabric. The noise is so simple, so ordinary that it feels wholly out of place here, where everything is designed to chafe.

“Very good. Keep that up and you’ll be eating again in no time.”

Warmth blooms over Amélie, more powerful than any standing ovation in the Palais Garnier. It prickles over her head, seeps down into her shoulders, and breaks the tense hold in her spine.

The black room welcomes her with outstretched arms. Darkness engulfs her and for that she is eternally grateful. Amélie sinks down onto the floor where she lays not on her side, curled up and fetal, but flat on her back.

There, she weakly sends her fingers over her arms, chest, stomach, legs. Each finger chases the first pleasure she’s felt since arriving here. Her veins feel alight with something rich and hot. Like honey, but infinitely softer. Like ichor, maybe, the substance that runs through veins of the gods.

_Very good_ , the voice told her.

She never knew obedience could be like this.


End file.
